


A Place On Earth

by PenroseByAnyOtherName



Category: Six - Marlow/Moss
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, References to Religion, mentions of Henry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 20:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20513192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenroseByAnyOtherName/pseuds/PenroseByAnyOtherName
Summary: Maybe she was an idiot. It was certainly better than loving Anne Boleyn.





	A Place On Earth

It had bothered her back then.

The stolen wardrobe kisses and private touches; the honey-lip whispering and the way her eyelids fell heavy for her; the way it had first slipped from between her own lips kissed sweet.

Her mind would slip while she prayed, her tongue thick and clumsy in her mouth. Prayers she had repeated day upon day, night upon night, year upon year, were suddenly clouded. Her mind drifted, her heart thrummed, and she squeezed her eyelids shut. Even as she begged salvation from her Lord, she could feel the anticipation hot behind her skin, sweaty on her palms and behind her ears. Other places, too, and she squeezed harder. 

It had scared her then, to betray the trust placed in her. Not by him, or even Him, but herself. She had trusted herself to be stronger, to be surer, and to be loyal. Loyal to the faith that bound her, and to the man that bound her to the life she had come to know.

It had scared her to think that she would have been cast from His grace and light, for little more than human wanting.

For little more than love.

Even then, so many years later, she recoiled to think that word. She loved Him, though never him, and whether she loved her she could never tell herself then that it was enough. It was not more - was never more - than she loved Him, and to love her had never been enough to forsake that.

Then, when it was only stolen glances and a beating heart, it had not been possible.

In her new life, things were different.

It had scared her, to see her. It was not the same, but not entirely dissimilar. She wondered what she thought of her. She wondered what the others thought of them. She wondered if the swelling in her throat and balling of her fists was enough to convince them it was hatred.

She wondered if they could see the wet shine of tears in her eyes, and the way her hands made to fists trembled.

They did not see restraint and pain, but anger, and that was okay. Maybe she did not need to love her again, and it was only a matter of circumstance before.

Maybe she was an idiot.

Idiot, she thought bitterly, was better than heretic or iconoclast. Being an idiot was better than going to Hell. Being an idiot was not a death sentence or a nunnery or poison. Being an idiot was not the worst fate to befall Catherine of Aragon. It was better than being heartbroken, and it was better than knowing better. 

It was certainly better than loving Anne Boleyn.

What cruelty it seemed, to find out that then, now, whenever it was, she would not have to forsake Him for her. Her love could have flourished and found prosperity in tandem.

(But, she reminded herself, she was not in love.)

Some days it was even tolerable. Some days she forgot the sweltering heat that grew in her stomach and poured out her mouth whenever she spoke her name. It was easy then, to just accept the answers given to her by the others. Reincarnation, absurd as it seemed, was better than what it felt like most other days.

Most days she felt it was Hell. Not the hell that so many used in passing, the hell that was only a phrase.

(Like how she had once, only once, smiled when Anne had called herself hot as hell.)

No, she was certain, it was Hell.

The untamed fire in her, the burning shame, the unquenchable desires, that was her Hell. It was torture and suffering, an iron band squeezing around her heart and white hot with the fires of her own passion. Hell was not a pit, not a place, not a phrase, but a feeling. 

Hell was the feeling of seeing Anne Boleyn, and the feeling of her heart contorting in her chest.

Hell was her new reality, and she wondered what she had done to deserve it. In her iron-clad heart, she feared she knew.

She was not immune to the irony of it all. She wished she was.

An idiot, but not stupid. (She wished she was.)

How Anne acted then, it seemed she was not alone in such sentiment. She supposed it was not unjustified. They had been punished before, for their wits, it was no wonder they both wanted to be anything but. Anne was not stupid, she never had been, but it had always suited her better, pretending she was. It was an unattractive look on her, on any woman, but, she reminded herself, she was not supposed to think in those measures.

It only made the aching worse, and she could feel her Hell warm around her.

Anne was flippant as always. Not about the particulars, but about the broad strokes of what had happened. She had always been flippant, stealing kisses too close to open windows, lazing in bed where their skin touched and fingers grazed for too many moments, staring in open opposition at her at times inappropriate.

Anne did not care, had never cared, in any broad sense.

Catherine had never let herself believe(or hope) that Anne could care. Not about her, not about them, not about anything that meant anything to her. Not about religion, though she had read that in her last moments Anne had prayed.

She wondered what for. She wondered if she prayed for salvation. She wondered if she prayed for forgiveness. She wondered if her mouth had moved in perfect whispers, as they had against her hand, her wrist, her throat, her thigh, her--

No.

(Yes, she wanted to whisper, as she had once before.)

Anne had always been flippant, but when she looked at her, really looked at her, there was something different about her. Ignorant, yes, but intentionally so. Loud, louder than usual, louder than before. Foolish, she so wanted to think, but there was nothing foolish about her. Nothing she did was without purpose or without reason.

What must Anne think to look at her? She thought on that more than she wanted to.

It had always been with only a look that things had fallen apart for them. That had not changed.

There was no hesitation once it started. No resistance was put up as they fell together and apart for the first time in so many more years than either wanted. An accident, Catherine had thought as she peeled tight clothes off warm skin. A crazy desperate accident, until she had her hands on her hips, fingers curling in under elastic, pulling down, her eyes trailing down and following.

Her underwear was yellow, and when she looked up, she wore a smile from ear to ear.

(Catherine smiled, too, but Anne could not see it as she pressed her mouth to her skin.)

It had bothered her before, but no longer.

No, it was not her Hell, of longing and wanting in vain. It was not His punishment for her betrayal of loyalty. It was not torture, because what she felt was not sin. She did not need to pray for salvation, though she whispered a prayer each night still, lips on red lips. She did not need to fear Hell.

Not when each moment with her was heavenly.


End file.
